


The Saint of Kilmannán

by EnduringParadox



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asshole Geraldus, Dad!Ciaran, Diarmuid in Distress, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Protective Mute, Rua POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:22:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26960605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnduringParadox/pseuds/EnduringParadox
Summary: Geraldus does not understand what he asks for. Neither does the Pope, for that matter. A saint’s power is not something that can be tamed and controlled like a beast of burden, and a saint that does not wish to be moved will make their displeasure known.-----Canon divergence/fix-it fic from Rua's POV. Based on medieval beliefs about relics and saints.
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Comments: 18
Kudos: 48





	The Saint of Kilmannán

**Author's Note:**

> A little fic based on some reading from Patrick J. Geary's book about relic thefts, Furta Sacra, mainly about how relics cannot be moved without the approval of the saint, and a few anecdotes about happenings with relics. 
> 
> Maybe slightly spooky? Or a little unsettling at least? Warning for a claustrophobic situation.

The Cistercian arrives in a flurry of clean, white robes and an air of arrogance that sets Rua’s teeth on edge.

He plays the part of piety well, this man, but Rua’s eyes are fine enough to discern his distaste for their monastery by the way his posture. The Cistercian draws in on himself as if trying to avoid evade the hardship of their day-to-day lives.

He kneels at the church entrance but carefully avoids the dirt, instead pressing his hands, his knees, his forehead to the smooth, clean stones set in the path. When prayers are over and they go about their business the man waits for the Abbot and watches them. His eyes rove the monastery grounds with disdain. Cathal tossing feed to the chickens. Diarmuid scraping bits of hair from the calf’s skin stretched in the courtyard that will become a fine sheaf of parchment.

When the Cistercian and the Abbot walk to the shore to speak privately the former casts another glance at their dry-stone structures, the simplicity of their clocháns, the livestock wandering freely as they work, how they all sweat and labor for even the most ascetic of existences.

Rua watches his expression twist into a sneer before transforming into that placid gaze of condescending piety.

He spits on the ground. How dare this foreigner come to their land, judge their lives, their home? The Cistercian knows nothing of Ireland, and he obviously knows less about God if his lip curls at the sight of their devotion to Him.

* * *

Geraldus is a representative of the Pope. The Pope wishes to use the relic of Saint Matthias to fight infidels. The Abbot, though reluctant, thus leads Geraldus to the place where they have kept it safely hidden, away from prying eyes and away from those who would misuse it.

Rua has never left Ireland—it is the Abbot and Brother Ciaran who are far traveled—but he hoards stories like others might hoard gold. Tales and myths and legends, history and parables. They are the perfect things to stockpile, taking up space nowhere but his mind and ready to be put to use once committed to memory. They are way to entertain himself in the yard as he goes about his daily chores, something to doze off to in the night if sleep evades him, and a gift to share freely with his brothers, to make them smile and laugh.

But he also knows from stories of saints’ lives and tales of translations that both their monastery’s relic and its power are unusual.

A relic is not just an object, of course. It is also the saint. The remains of their body, their life on Earth, and yet also _themselves_ , still present to protect their followers, to perform miraculous and wondrous acts for the deserving and devoted. Pieces of limb and bone, hands and feet and legs and arms and sometimes even incorrupt bodies, still warm to the touch and which give off not the odor of rot but of fresh flowers. There are saints that have cured leprosy when the afflicted laid their hands upon the relic. Others who have listened to the desperate prayers fearful women and safely guided them through difficult childbirths.

And there have been mistreated, mishandled relics that bled as thieves attempted to cart them off, staining their hands red, marking them as the culprits.

Is it any wonder that their own relic acts as it does? That this part of Saint Matthias they have, this spirit of the saint—neither skin nor bones nor even clothes he wore but the thing that killed him—performs violent miracles? Burns and twists the bodies of the sinful and faithless?

The Cistercian walks alongside the Abbot, where Ciaran would usually be, and Ciaran walks behind them, seemingly unperturbed.

That’s fine—Rua can be perturbed enough for the both of them. He holds both the torch and a great deal of distaste and uneasiness for this entire affair. Geraldus does not understand what he asks for. Neither does the Pope, for that matter. A saint’s power is not something that can be tamed and controlled like a beast of burden, and a saint that does not wish to be moved will make their displeasure known.

Long ago the Norsemen had tried to steal Saint Matthias’s relic. In response he called up a storm that had dragged their ships down to the bottom of the sea and had burnt the would-be thieves until they were nothing but husks of ash curled up on the ground, trapped in a perpetual state of agony.

Saint Matthias had approved, years before Rua even joined the monastery, of being transferred from the church altar to the hiding place deep, deep in cliffs by the seaside.

But what will he do if he does not wish to be a part of a holy war? What will happen to them then?

* * *

It is always as Rua remembers it. The wide expanse of the sea, the spray from the waves filling the air with the scent of salt. The slow dawning of the sun drowning out the light from their torches. The pit in which they store the relic, deep and dark like a wound in the earth.

Diarmuid has never seen it. Much too young and too excitable in years past. Even now he peers into the depths, all boyish curiosity, and the Mute, ever watchful, tugs him away from the edge by the hood of his robes.

“Diarmuid,” Ciaran calls, “Be careful.”

“Yes, Brother Ciaran.” The young man rolls his eyes, but there’s honest fondness in his voice. He gently pats the Mute’s broad hand resting on his shoulder. Neither novice nor lay brother has ever been anything but gentle with the other. They’re a pair: Diarmuid and the Mute, together as often as they’re allowed.

Now they stand side-by-side, watching the other monks prepare to heave the relic out of the pit. The Mute is the strongest of them all by far—sometimes Rua thinks he’s more ox than man—but it is not his duty to guard the relic, and Diarmuid is still in his novitiate, and so they stand back and observe.

Rua does the same. He douses the torches and then waits for Saint Matthias’s will to be revealed.

There is trouble immediately. The rope the two monks are pulling is attached to _something_ —it goes taut in their hands—but it will not budge. They cannot pull the relic up. Cathal shuffles close to the edge and squints down below, as if the problem will suddenly make itself visible. An expression of concern crosses Ciaran’s face.

Geraldus frowns. He turns to the Abbot for an explanation. The Abbot turns to the Mute. “My friend,” he says, “Would you mind assisting us with this matter?”

The Mute nods. The other two monks near the pit scurry out of the way as he wraps the rope around one wrist, digs his heels into the ground, and attempts to haul the relic out into the open.

Nothing happens. Incredulity blooms on the Mute’s face as he struggles with the rope. He grits his teeth. His muscles bulge under his coat. Beads of sweat break out along his forehead.

Diarmuid hurries forward, face fraught with worry. “Don’t hurt yourself,” he murmurs, stroking the Mute’s arm. The lay brother drops the rope with a huff. He runs a hand through his hair and stares down at Diarmuid as the novice rubs his arm soothingly. The man looks confused as anything, but there’s also a flush on his face—he seems ashamed to have been bested by a rope and an immobile relic in front of his younger companion.

No one but Rua seems to have realized what’s happened—that Saint Matthias refuses to leave. The Cistercian says, “It’s caught on something, that’s all. You just need to see what’s holding it back.”

The hairs on the back of Rua’s neck stand up. The relic cannot be caught on anything. There is nowhere and nothing for it to be stuck on. All that is left of St. Matthias’s earthly remains—the dried blood and hair on that rock that crushed his skull—is in a box in a hollowed out hole in the ground.

Rua warns, “Abbot, this is not wise. Saint Matthias has made his wishes known. We should leave.”

Geraldus scoffs. He turns to Diarmuid, still comforting a sheepish looking Mute. “Boy,” he says, “Use the rope and see what’s happened.”

The Mute freezes. Diarmuid looks from Geraldus to the Abbot to Ciaran, an uneasy expression on his face. “I—you want me to—go down there?”

“Of course. The lay brother can lower you down with the rope. See what’s happened with the relic and free it. Then we’ll pull the both of you back up.”

Alarm and anger courses through Rua’s body. The gall of this man. “You can’t move a saint that doesn’t want to be moved, _brother_ ,” he spits, “And you’ll not endanger our novice for your fool’s errand.”

“ _Fool’s errand_? I am here on the authority of Rome. Of the _Pope_ —“

“The Pope himself cannot bend a saint to his whims. Saint Matthias does not want to be moved,” Rua repeats.

But even if everyone but the Cistercian is as uneasy as he, no one heeds his words. Diarmuid, of course, bravely agrees to be lowered down into the pit. As Ciaran kisses his forehead and says a small prayer Diarmuid says to the Mute, “Don’t worry. If you’re holding on to me, I’ll be fine, won’t I?”

The Mute briefly cups Diarmuid’s cheek before taking hold of the rope once more. The novice smiles, then disappears into the earth, sliding down into the depths.

They wait. Rua fears that they’ll hear the young man lose his footing, hear his scream cut short as his body meets the hard ground below, or worse, that they’ll see the black depths lit with Diarmuid’s small body, smoldering in flames as he attempts to move the relic.

A stupid, foolish thought. If there is one person among them who is pure of heart it is Diarmuid, who has known nothing but their monastery in all his years. The only things he’s ever harmed are a few pages of parchment with impatient lettering and ink stains.

Eventually they hear him calling from below. “It should be fine, now! Pull me up, please!”

Ciaran and the Mute breathe an audible sigh of relief. The latter relaxes, slightly, and then tries to haul both relic and novice to the surface.

But the rope doesn’t budge. It goes taut once more, as if some force is holding it in place.

Rua exchanges a worried glance with Ciaran. Geraldus, on the other hand, is irritated.

“What’s the boy doing? Does he think this is a game? Tell him to send the relic up!”

The group crowds around the pit. The Abbot cups his face, ready to call out to the novice, when Diarmuid’s voice echoes back to them.

“Did you hear me?” he asks. “I’m ready!” There is a tug on the rope—it stirs in the Mute’s hands. The tension in the man’s shoulders ease, just for a moment, as Diarmuid has seemingly solved the problem, but as soon as wraps his hands around the rope once more and pulls it goes rigid, as if it is tied and anchored to the ground by a heavy weight.

“Oh, Lord,” Cathal whispers.

Rua groans. He warned them, he warned them. One cannot go against the will of saints, authority of the Pope or not. Hasn’t Geraldus heard the tales? There are many and myriad stories of wondrous happenings when it comes to relics and those who would take them.

Centuries ago, when Saint Abbanus died, there was a dispute over who would get his body: the place with the monastery which he founded and where he left this earthly plane, Magh-Arnuidhe, or the place he was born and where he gained his first followers, Ceall-Abbain? Before the argument could turn nasty, Abbanus performed one other miracle and created another, exact body so that both communities could have his protection.

A saint had stopped a ship dead in the water, once. Saint Appian, once of Pavia but who had lived and died and whose bones rested in Comacchio. When citizens of his former town attempted to abduct his remains, Appian took hold of their ship. It sat there in the water, sails not heeding the winds, waves crashing against its unmoving hull. The terrified travelers allowed the ship to drift as it would, and Appian guided the vessel the shore so that the citizens of Comacchio could carry his bones back to the church.

And of course, Saint Matthias, who forced a fleet of Norsemen into a watery grave, who had burned thieves and his own murderers alive, now simply refuses to leave his hiding spot. And their novice is stuck with him.

“A fool’s errand,” Rua snaps at the Cistercian, “And a _fool_. You’ve trapped our boy.”

Geraldus’s face twists with rage. “Such superstition! I’ve never seen anything like it! You are men of God, and yet you hide this relic like it is something shameful—like something to be feared—“

Of course it is something to be feared. A saint’s powers are to be respected. The miraculous works they do—not all of them are beautiful.

A retort dies on Rua’s lips as they are interrupted by Diarmuid’s panicked cries. “Can’t anyone hear me? Please, get me out! I don’t want to be down here anymore! _Please!_ ”

The Mute drops the rope. He makes an odd, animalistic kind of noise, like a mix between a snarl and a sob. He begins to pace around the pit, staring into the darkness from this angle and that, searching for some solution or perhaps just a glimpse of Diarmuid, his breathing growing erratic and heavy. Rua knows the man well enough after all these years to know that he is about to go into a panic—but it is Diarmuid who always calms and consoles him, who soothes his demons.

Ciaran grabs the lay brother as he completes another lap. “He’ll be _fine,_ my friend,” he says. The Mute idly nods, his gaze far away, his eyes red-rimmed.

Rua implores the Abbot, “Leave the relic. If Saint Matthias approved of this task then he would not have impeded it so. We’ll get Diarmuid and leave this place.”

Geraldus scoffs again but the Abbot nods. “Yes. That’s the right thing to do.” He stares into the darkness. “Diarmuid? Are you alright?”

“Yes, yes! But please, get me out!”

“Untie the rope from the relic,” the Abbot says, “And we’ll pull you up.”

A faint response, nearly drowned up by the sound of the waves, and a tiny sniffle. “Y-yes. Okay.”

Ignoring Geraldus’s outraged protests, they gather around the rope and wait. It’s like a thin cord in the Mute’s large hands; he carefully wraps it around his wrist once more and holds tight, waiting for the sign that Diarmuid is ready.

When there is another tug on the rope the Mute immediately begins to haul the young man up.

This time there is no resistance. The rope coils around the lay brother’s feet.

It is slow, careful work. Too fast and the jagged rocks might cut Diarmuid’s skin open, or worse, the heat from the friction might fray the rope and send him tumbling down to his death. But the Mute is as careful as ever. They are always looking out for one another, their lay brother and their novice.

When a flash of Diarmuid’s curly brown hair peeks over the edge Ciaran scrambles forward and grabs hold of the young man, yanking him back onto solid ground. The monk cradles him in his arms like he did when Diarmuid was a very small child. Rua recalls that he was only ever fussy when he wasn’t being held.

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” Ciaran says. He presses a kiss to Diarmuid’s curls. “I’ve got you.”

Diarmuid’s cheeks are tearstained, but even so he says, “I’m fine. I’m sorry—I got scared. But I’m fine.” He sniffles and wipes his eyes. “I got scared,” he repeats.

At this the Mute lurches forward and simply lifts the young man from Ciaran’s arms and into his own. Diarmuid buries himself into the crook of the older man’s neck. The Mute squeezes him to his chest and lets out a long, shuddering breath. Then, without sparing a glance at the rest of them, he begins to walk back toward the monastery, pausing only to snarl at Geraldus, who takes a step back at the dark expression on the Mute’s face.

The meaning is clear: They are done here, and are going home.

* * *

They offer the Cistercian a night’s lodgings, but he refuses to take it.

Good riddance, in Rua’s opinion.

Diarmuid receives a glass of warmed, mulled wine to help him sleep. He protests at first and then grumbles as he is tucked safely into bed anyway. He’s there in his clochán, nestled in his bed like a little bug. The small hut is crowded. There’s Diarmuid, his two attentive nurses, and now Rua, come to visit him.

“Brother Rua,” Diarmuid murmurs. His voice is heavy with impending sleep.

“Hello, Diarmuid,” Rua says. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m well, I promise. Just—just tired.”

“It was a frightening thing. I’m sorry it happened to you.” It needn’t have, if Geraldus had been smart enough to stop after the first attempt.

Diarmuid smiles. “We should’ve listened to you.” Rua cannot help but preen in agreement.

Ciaran looks up from where he is grinding herbs into powder for Diarmuid’s wine. “Lord, help us. Don’t go telling him that, Diarmuid. An inflated ego is a very ugly thing on a monk.”

Rua says, “Oh, I know that. I could barely stand to look at that Cistercian, so ugly he was. Never seen a man so puffed up with self-importance.”

“All of us are sinners in some way,” Ciaran says, mildly.

“Of course,” Rua replies, “But most of us are aware of that fact.”

They lapse into silence. Rua watches as the Mute gently takes Diarmuid’s hand in his and presses the young man’s palm to his cheek. He smiles as Diarmuid’s thumb brushes against his lower lip.

It’s a very affectionate, very intimate gesture. Both Rua and Ciaran pretend they have no idea what it means. The older monk resolutely grinds his herbs with mortar and pestle, and Rua simply waits for a lull in this lovesickness to speak again.

Finally Diarmuid turns to him. He does not let go of the Mute’s hand. “Why do you think Saint Matthias stopped us from moving him today?”

“Didn’t want to be in the presence of an absolute bastard, I should think.”

The Mute huffs a laugh. Ciaran clucks his tongue disapprovingly. But Rua is being completely serious. “You know these stories, Diarmuid. About men who try to steal relics.” And end up paralyzed or drowned or burned for it.

Diarmuid pulls the blankets up to his chin. “But Brother Geraldus isn’t a thief. He’s a representative of the Pope.”

“It’s not a man’s occupation that is important, but his intentions. Perhaps Saint Matthias saw something in the Cistercian that he didn’t like. Or perhaps he didn’t want to be used to fight in a Crusade.” The Mute understands this last sentiment. His gives a nearly imperceptible nod of agreement.

“Still—“ Diarmuid yawns. “It would have been nice to go to Waterford. And Rome. To see it together.”

The mortar and pestle clatter on Diarmuid’s desk as Ciaran sets them down. He wipes his hands on his robes. “Well, my dear, Rome might be a bit too far. But perhaps, at the next market, we might make a trip to Waterford. The cart’s axle is on its last leg, and I’d like to stock up on some herbs…”

Diarmuid’s face, slightly flushed with wine, turns a deeper pink as he smiles in delight. “Yes, please, I’d like that! That’d be so much fun—wouldn’t it be fun?” He turns to the Mute, who smiles softly in return and squeezes his hand.

Rua wishes them all a good evening. He walks out into the cool night air and leaves Diarmuid to his dreaming. He can hear the novice still happily chattering as he dozes off, planning an entire market day to spend with his silent, stalwart companion.


End file.
